


Coffee and Champagne

by rubygirl29



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, First Time, M/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 02:10:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil returns to New York on New Year's Eve to reunite with Clint at <i>Les Trois Demoiselles</i> Follows the events of Blue Christmas.</p><p>This won't make a lot of sense if you don't read <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1103983">Blue Christmas </a> first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee and Champagne

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, I had to write New Year's Eve after _Blue Christmas_
> 
> Disclaimer: Marvel owns the characters. I own only my words, and the _Les Trois Demoiselles_ coffee shop AU.

New Year's Eve dawns unseasonably warm in New York. The snow that had fallen on Christmas Eve has melted into piles of slush and the skies are leaden and gray. The forecast is for rain, late. Clint wonders if the people gathering in Times Square are prepared to be cold and wet as they wait for the crystal ball to descend. He's done that, a few years back. He was half-drunk, with a guy who ended up being a real dick, and he has no desire to be there again. He has a lousy track record when it comes to relationships. Being alone doesn't bother him all that much, except when everybody else seems to have somebody to hug and kiss and dream of a future. 

He goes, instead to the party at the Bed-Stuy rec center where he wears a silly party hat, drinks neon-colored sherbet punch, and plays games with the kids there. He intentionally loses at Wii Archery and awards a plastic gold medal to a little girl named Kate, who is his prize student. There is a DJ spinning records and a karaoke machine. Clint sings his heart out to Billy Joel's _New York State of Mind_. The evening wraps up at eight, with a plastic ball dropping from the gym ceiling and the kids singing _Auld Lang Syne_ , which they have no clue as to the meaning of the lyrics. The kids love it, and so does he. He feels good, but lonely, as he heads out into the drizzle. 

He thinks about going home. Thinks about it long and hard and is about to make the turn home when he hears a song coming from an open bar door, _What are you doing New Years, New Years Eve?_. He thinks of Phil Coulson asking the question, thinks about the kiss they had shared. He hasn't heard anything since, however. He hadn't expected to, but he had hoped. 

Still … still. He makes the turn towards _Les Trois Demoiselles_ coffee shop. Why not? He could stand some coffee and company. He could pretend that a handsome man in an Army Ranger sweater will show up. _Barton, you are such an idiot_ he tells himself. 

The shop is as warm and inviting as he recalled. He breathes in the aromas of coffee, cinnamon, vanilla and sugar. Tonight, Darcy is at the register. She smiles widely at Clint. 

"Hey, stranger. What can I get for you?" She's wearing a low-cut green sweater with sparkles around the low neckline. It's an eyeful. Clint might be gay, but he's not blind. He can appreciate a work of art as much as any man. "Darcy, you are ravishing."

"Why thank you, sir." She makes a wobbly courtesy. "What can I get for you? Oh, wait, I have something really special. Trust me?"

"Absolutely."

She ducks in back and returns with a cake that is unbelievable. "It's my Champagne Celebration cake. Espresso flavored cake brushed with Kahlua and a champagne buttercream frosting embellished with chocolate ribbon curls and chocolate-covered coffee beans."

Clint groans and taps his lean middle. "There is a reason I can't come here every day."

"As if," Darcy snorts. "Live a little." She cuts him a slice of the heavenly cake and makes him a plain latte. "Non-fat if that makes you feel better." 

"Where is Jane?"

"Off with her ridiculously huge and handsome boyfriend, Thor." She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, he's Scandinavian." 

"And Natasha?"

"Going to a high-brow party later with her current boyfriend, Bruce. He's a scientist. You'd think he and Jane would hook up, but no."

"And you?"

"I'm here. I mean, I'm here until closing and then Times Square, here I come." Darcy looks like the kind of girl who will never be alone on New Year's Eve. "I'm meeting Jane and Thor, so don't worry about me. Hey, you want to come along?"

Clint shakes his head. "No. I'm too old for that."

"Pffft!" Darcy dismisses him. Two other customers have come in, shaking the rain from their jackets, laughing, and crowding close to the counter.

Clint takes his cake and retreats to his table by the window. A week ago, he was sitting here talking to Phil Coulson. Coulson, who apparently had been coerced into spending the holiday with his family instead of hanging out with a maybe-boyfriend. Clint can't blame him for having a large and loving family, but he admits he's feeling sorry for himself.

He takes a bite of Darcy's sympathy cake and moans a little; it's almost as good as sex; in fact Clint has had some sex that he'd gladly trade for this cake. He closes his eyes and thinks about Phil. He wishes he could share the cake with him. He knows it would make him smile. He takes another bite and makes a wish.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Phil swears he will never travel by air over the holidays again. Getting to Chicago was a nightmare, getting back was almost as bad. Screaming babies, overcrowded terminals, bad food, seats that made his back ache fiercely. Forget about grabbing a quick snooze. He ends up sharing a cab with a loquacious grandmother who can't resist telling him about her adventures in getting to Des Moines in a blizzard. 

Phil grimaces in sympathy and looks out at the glistening streets. No snow, just rain and wind. The cabbie drops off the grandmother two blocks from _Les Trois Demoiselles_ and blessed silence descends. "Rough day, mon?" 

"You might say so."

"It's New Year's, time for celebrating, no?" 

"I hope so." Phil leans forward. The coffee shop is in sight. "Let me off here. I'll walk the rest of the way." He tips the cabbie generously and steps out into the chilly, damp night. He draws in a lungful of fresh air. It's the first outside air he's really breathed since Chicago. It smells like New York, which to Phil, isn't a bad thing. The streets are busy, and while Times Square is several subway stops away, there are people thronging to get on the trains. Phil wants to avoid that crush at all costs. He still gets anxious in crowds — hyper-vigilance isn't all that unusual according to his therapist at Walter Reed. He makes a conscious effort to fight against the tension in his shoulders and neck.

He keeps walking against the flow of traffic until he's standing outside _Les Trois Demoiselles_. It looks as warm and welcoming as it had a week ago. Phil pauses and looks through the windows, his heart in his throat. 

Clint is sitting at the same table. He's wearing a cap, his scarf is wrapped loosely around his throat, he's looking out of the window, but not the one where Phil is standing. He looks a little lonely, a little hopeful, a little nervous.

Phil thinks he must have the same expression on his face. A laughing couple brushes past him through the door, and the aroma of coffee wafts out. Phil lets it draw him inside. Darcy is at the register, and when she sees Phil, her eyes open wide. Phil holds a finger to his lips, hushing her greeting. He walks over to Clint's table. "Waiting for somebody?" he asks.

Clint's entire face lights up. It's damn breathtaking, and Phil feels like his breath has gone out in a rush — like somebody has punched him in the solar plexus. 

"Waiting for you." He shoves the chair away from the table with his boot. "I thought it would be next year before you showed up."

Phil laughs at the obvious joke. "It's a good thing I didn't keep you waiting, then." He sits and takes a sip of his coffee. "Why is this coffee so much better than any I've had before?"

"Magic," Clint smiles. "Or given Jane's background, it might just be chemistry."

"I think it's both. Magic and chemistry. And I can't forget the company." He raises his mug to clink against Clint's. "I was hoping I'd be here sooner."

"You're here, now. How was Christmas, by the way?"

"Hectic, exhausting, wonderful. That's my family."

"Sounds nice. Better than I ever had, but then, I have a gold medal." He sounds both wistful and bitter. "I'm not a big fan of holidays, but Darcy made this awesome cake and you need coffee."

"Actually, the last thing I need is coffee." He looks around. "How about a piece of cake to go? The flight in was kind of … long." 

Clint looks at him, sees the lines of fatigue and the blue shadows under his eyes. "You're tired."

"Long flight, too many people. My head hurts," he admits. 

Clint gets up and takes the cake over to Darcy. "Can we get this to go?"

She grins, her eyes sparkling. "Somebody has something to celebrate?"

Clint can't help blushing. "It's New Year's Eve."

"Awesome." She wraps the cake to go. "Happy New Year, Hawkeye!" She leans over the counter and gives him a kiss on the cheek, then wipes the lipstick off. "Don't want your guy over there to get jealous." She winks, and sashays back into the kitchen.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

This time, Clint calls a cab before Phil can object. The fare isn't likely to break him. They ride in near silence, and Clint risks twining his fingers through Phil's, who after a moment of surprise at the gesture, relaxes into the touch. He doesn't release his clasp until he has to open the elevator to his loft. Once inside, he takes Phil's hand and draws him into a kiss. It's sweet and deep. It feels so damn right that neither of them want to stop. Entwined with Phil, Clint guides him up the steps to the living room level.

There are too many layers of clothes between them; winter coats, sweaters, boots. They collapse on the couch, breathless and laughing. Clint strips off his jacket, then helps Phil out of his. They untie and toe-off boots, and then kiss again. Clint nuzzles his way down Phil's cheek, the angle of his jaw, his neck. His face is cool, his throat warm. He smells like fresh air, soap, and himself. Phil moans softly. "Are you real?" he asks, his fingers brushing through Clint's hair where it curls at the nape of his neck.

"Don't I feel real?" Clint draws back enough to search Phil's expression. 

"You feel too good to be real," Phil whispers. "Where have you been all my life?"

"Here and there." Clint's eyes crinkle in amusement. "Waiting for you."

"That is a line from a romantic comedy," Phil murmurs, losing himself in the way Clint is kissing his way down his throat. Then his fingers are at the buttons on Phil's shirt, and his lips are skating along his clavicle. Phil stops his hand. "Wait."

"Why?"

"I have a scar … scars on my chest. They're not pretty."

Clint just raises a brow. "That is supposed to matter to me?"

"It might to some people."

"You were some sort of super hero soldier. You should have scars." Clint opens the next few buttons and slides the shirt off Phil's shoulders. "Can I see?"

Reluctantly, Phil takes off his undershirt. He can't meet Clint's eyes. How can he when he doesn't like to look at the scars himself? There is a moment of silence, then Clint says softly, "Oh." 

"I told you it was ugly." Phil reaches for his undershirt, feeling cold and exposed. 

"It's not ugly! It's just … God, that's close to your heart." His palm rests over the hard, ridged flesh. "You could have died."

"They told me I was dead for four minutes before they were able to stop the bleeding and restart my heart. I don't remember any of it." He is startled when Clint bows his head and kisses his scar. 

"I knew you were a hero."

"Not so much. Just lucky."

"Lucky is getting out without a scratch. Not being mostly dead." 

Phil shrugs. "I can't dwell on what I don't remember. I'm here, and I'm alive. And I really, really want to keep on kissing you." He does, and Clint melts against him. 

"I have a bedroom," he whispers. 

"Good." Phil licks the lobe of Clint's ear and feels the shudder all the way through his body. It's impossibly erotic. "Please," he says, and Clint knows what he is asking. 

He leads Phil to the bedroom. There is enough light to cast shadows on Clint's body as he strips down. There are scars marring the smooth skin, old scars that are long-healed. Phil isn't sure he wants to know where they came from, or how old Clint was when they were acquired. He touches a white scar that laces along Clint's ribs. It looks like it was a knife wound. He asks, and Clint sighs.

"Here's the thing. I kind of fudged my background — not a lot — but after my parents were killed in a car crash, my brother and I went to an orphanage. We stayed until Barney was big enough to pass for eighteen, then we ran off with a traveling carnival. I was fourteen, not the biggest guy in the world, but I had good eyesight and I was pretty fearless. I was started in the archery act with a guy called Trickshot. Good archer, bad human being, but he trained me to shoot."

Clint rolls to his back, his arms crossed behind his head. Phil is still beside him, listening to the soft cadence of Clint's voice, not quite without emotion, but almost as if he's talking about somebody else. "Go on," he encourages Clint. "We've got time."

"Trick got Barney involved in a scheme to rob the owner of the carnival. When I found out about it, Trick went after me, beat me up pretty bad, cut me with a knife. Trick, Barney and another guy took off. I haven't seen Barney since. He might be in jail or dead … But I ended up in CPS, and in school … the rest of what I told you is true."

Phil rests a gentle hand on Clint's ribs, covering the scar, and leans down to kiss him. "Thank you for telling me." He can feel Clint's throat work beneath his palm before he speaks; his voice both ragged and teasing. 

"So, now we have all that out of the way, can we get back to the good stuff?" 

Phil's answer is in his kiss, which is fine with Clint. After, there is the taste of Phil on his tongue, bitter and fresh, the slide of skin, the feel of his weight and hardness as he presses down into Clint's body and the way they climax and calm when their bodies part reluctantly. 

They shower, Clint working the remaining tension out of Phil's shoulders. The shower is still hot and Phil looks so blissed out that Clint kisses him lightly. "Take your time. I'll be in the living room."

Ten minutes later, Phil finally emerges, wearing one of Clint's robes. His hair is drying; light strands unruly. Clint hands him a flute of champagne. Darcy's cake is carefully divided and on two plates. Phil looks at the clock. It is 11:57pm. 

"Perfect timing," Clint smiles. "We should be able to see the fireworks from the riverfront." He turns on the TV and they look at the happy faces in the crowd. The rain has stopped and people are looking up at the Waterford ball glittering overhead as they count down the old year. 

Clint wraps his arm around Phil. "Better than last year?"

Phil thinks about where he was last year — struggling for life in the hospital at Bagram AFB. "Last year I thought I was a dead man. This year, I've never felt so alive."

Clint is about to say something, when the ball drops in Times Square and the crown bursts into cheers, kisses and off-key renderings of Auld Lang Syne. The skies over the river blossom with light. Clint raises his glass and Phil gently chimes his own against it. "Happy New Year, Clint."

"Happy New Year, Phil." They sip champagne and kiss as the final stars of the fireworks are replaced by the glitter of city lights. 

**The End**


End file.
